Close Quarters
by thatmasquedgirl
Summary: Alternate universe. *Oliver and Felicity strike a deal, and both get far more than they bargained for in the process.* Another way that Oliver and Felicity could have met, this time involving chatchkas and Roy sleeping on a couch. Based on a Tumblr prompt. THANKS FOR 300 FOLLOWERS ON TUMBLR. Complete.


**Title: Close Quarters  
>Word Count: 9494<strong>

**Prompt from witchy-of-hogwarts on Tumblr:** "What if Felicity had an ad out for a roommate when Oliver got back and his family had cut him off or he didn't want to live with them or something? Most of the roommate trope fics on Ao3 are post s2 things, but I was thinking what if that's how they met?"

**Notes:** I am so sorry. This was an awesome prompt and I really wanted to make this awesome and amazing and worth reading, but, uh, I blew it. I usually strive for quality over quantity, but I'm kind of eh about it and, for the life of me, I have no idea how to fix it. So I'll just point out the length of this fic (almost 9500 words), and I'll apologize profusely.

For the rest of you reading this, it is supposed to be a thank-you for 300 followers on Tumblr, but I just… I don't know. I feel like this broke down somewhere along the way, and I'm kind of glad to be done with it. *throws fic in your faces* Take it—I'm done. If you feel so kind, please leave a review or comment, but if you're busy, thanks for just taking the time to read this hot mess. :P

After Oliver tries living at home for a few weeks, he decides that there's really no way he can live at home anymore. His mother is demanding and his sister, while lovely, is out of control because she probably needs to be able to get away from home every once in a while, too. His business as the Hood takes up a fair share of his life, and he's tired of people demanding to know where he disappears late at night. And not to mention that everyone is demanding he open up about the island, and it's the last thing he wants to do. He needs to have a break, to go to a place where he has to be no one but himself.

Because his mother wants to limit his choice as much as possible but doesn't want to say no, she's told him that she's not going to finance it. He's limited to his trust fund allowance, and he's crunched the numbers to find that it's going to severely limit his apartment. With the cost of utilities, groceries, and other living expenses Oliver typically incurs, he's limited to a relatively low rent price.

He looks for weeks, but he can't find anything. It's frustrating, but life goes on. Somewhere along the way, Floyd Lawton leaves a bullet-ridden laptop in his motel room, and Oliver is very much in need of a something to lead him to Lawton's next target. With that in mind, he looks through the Queen Consolidated employee registry, and he references them across the tech support records and by asking his own questions. It doesn't take him long to decide on one name: Felicity Smoak.

When he visits her, she's not what he thought she would be. He'd expected her to be all thick-rimmed glasses, frizzy brown hair, and braces—just like the girl who used to tutor him in algebra back in high school. He does _not_ expect blonde hair, fuchsia lipstick, and an industrial piercing across the top of one ear—or for her to call him on his bullshit story he made up on the spot. But she does, even if she agrees to help him with the laptop anyway.

The news she gives him isn't fantastic (apparently Lawton's next target is a building Oliver can't secure on his own), but he makes sure to thank her for it. "I owe you one, Felicity," he says, this time not trying to pretend to be the same ridiculous idiot he tried to be when he walked in. "If you ever need anything, let me know."

She thinks on it a moment, then says slowly, "Actually, I've decided to rent my spare room, and I'm not sure I'm ready to list it in the paper yet." She waves a hand. "I kind of want someone I know—or a friend of a friend—to fill the opening, if I can." She frowns. "I'm not sure if any of your friends need a small bedroom away from their mansion, but if they do, let them know."

Oliver thinks for a moment that the universe must be toying with him, but then he thinks it's also the opportunity he's been waiting for. It's ridiculous to think things could be so easy after such a long search for the finish, but here the opportunity is, waiting right in front of him. He'd be a fool not to seize it, but part of him thinks this isn't a good idea. Still, he also thinks that it isn't a good idea to stay at home with his mother any longer.

So he smiles at Felicity and says, "Actually, I think I know someone."

* * *

><p>Oliver decides he really has no clue what he's expecting when he finds his way to the address Felicity gave him. It's been a while since they last spoke; between the issues in his schedule resulting from mandatory family dinners, recruiting John Diggle to join him in his crusade, and the whole issue of being "falsely" accused of being the Hood, they've had to reschedule his appointment to look at the place several times. Unfortunately for him, it means being up at nine on a Saturday morning, but it's the only time they really had, since she works through the week, and his business is at night.<p>

When he finally finds the place, he's surprised to find that it's a house with a drive, instead of an apartment building with a parking complex. The house is a white, two-story affair with a red door, displaying just a subtle hint of Felicity's personality and influence. A quick glance around shows that it's somewhat isolated, with a long driveway and the two houses adjacent sitting a fair distance away from hers, unlike the way most of the others on the block are crammed almost on top of one another. He regards it for a moment before deciding that he likes the location.

He walks up to the door and knocks tentatively, surprised when he doesn't hear any movement after a few minutes. He checks the time on his phone once, and it informs him that it's nine-fifteen, so he's actually fifteen minutes late. Hesitant, he knocks again, louder this time, and he can finally hear someone scrambling around in the background.

The door opens after a moment, and Felicity stares up at him with wide eyes and a confused frown. Oliver thinks he might be mirroring her expression; she's dressed in a red, fluffy bathrobe over her pajamas, and all he can see of those are pants covered in one-eyed, alien-looking dogs. Her hair sticks up in all directions, and she's not wearing any makeup.

"Oh, wow, we rescheduled for today, didn't we?" she asks, a light dusting of blush starting to creep over her cheekbones. "Um, I forgot." She twists her fingers together nervously. "I made the mistake of not putting this in the calendar on my tablet, and, well, clearly my memory isn't as good as I'd hoped. Well, it's not _bad_, but it's just—" She stops, closing her eyes taking a deep breath like she did the last time he saw her. "And I'm babbling." She opens her eyes again. "Feel free to stop me whenever I do that."

He tries to bite back the smile, but it doesn't quite work. "That's fine," he assures her. "I can always come back later. It's not like we haven't rescheduled before."

She waves a hand, dismissing the thought. "You're here, I'm here—well, of course I'm here. This is my home—it makes sense that I'd be here." She sighs, holding a hand to her forehead. "I'm clearly not ready for social interaction yet—I haven't had any coffee, and I don't function well without it. But the point was that you're here, I'm here, and I don't mind showing you the room, if you just give me a minute."

"That works for me," he answers, and she opens the door wide enough to usher him in. Her living room is a light shade of turquoise, with gray, comfortable furniture. There are two recliners, one on either side of the couch. The sofa itself is sort of in the middle of the room, and a teenager is draped across it, sleeping soundly with his red hood pulled over his head.

"That's Roy," Felicity says quietly, answering Oliver's unspoken question. "I used to babysit him when he was a kid." She frowns. "His mom has some... _problems_." She skirts over the word she wants to use, which Oliver isn't sure he wants to know about anyway. "So, when it gets to be too much, he crashes on my couch here." She bites her lip. "Originally, the room I'm renting was supposed to be for him, but he insists that he's not a guest and crashes on my couch every time." She waves a hand, and her eyes turn very serious despite the smile on her face. "But the point is that he's a fixture around here." Oliver hears what she _doesn't_ say: _If you don't like that, you can leave_.

He takes the hint, but decides he'll wait to see how things go before he decides if it's an issue. Instead of speaking, he follows her into the kitchen, sitting at the bar extending down one side. He watches her work the coffee machine, and she pauses before taking a mug from her cupboards. "I'm being rude," she says finally. "Would you like something to drink?"

"No, thank you," he answers, then clears his throat. "You have a very nice home."

She turns to him, squinting as she examines his expression. "You know you don't have to say that, right? Because this place is a mess—if I'd remembered you were coming, I would have actually made it look presentable." She crosses her arms as she waits for the coffee pot to fill, leaning back against the counter. "I mean, I have books and circuitboards thrown everywhere, I'm pretty sure Roy has dragged a mud trail through my living room, and there's dust all over my _chachkas_."

Oliver can't help but ask, though part of him thinks he probably shouldn't. "Your what?"

She goes crimson on the spot. "I'm Jewish—I start throwing around Hebrew when I get flustered," she explains. "But I mean my dust collectors. Trinkets, knickknacks, _chachkas_..." She waves a hand. "Whatever you want to call them. But you'll have to put up with the bursts of Hebrew."

He surprises himself by responding, "I managed to learn Russian and Mandarin—I think I can handle a little Hebrew." His tone is almost playful, as though he's teasing her, and he wonders when he became so comfortable with Felicity. He hasn't felt so relaxed with someone in five years. But part of him also wonders if he revealed too much; he hasn't told anyone about the island or the number of skills he gained while there.

She seems surprised, too, judging by the way she turns away from the coffee pot to look at him, and then her mouth turns into a slight smile. Before she can speak, though, Roy collapses onto a stool on the other end of the bar from Oliver, still looking mostly asleep. His hood is down, revealing dark, spiky hair. "Hey, Blondie," he calls in a rough tone reminiscent of the Glades, "who's your friend? And can I get a cup of that coffee, please?"

Oliver catches the _please_ at the end, showing her a level of respect despite the gruff demeanor. The potentially derogatory nickname is said with a smile, as if it's a title agreed upon ages ago. Already Oliver can see that there's a strong relationship between these two, probably forged of Roy's suffering and her kindness, if Felicity's statement is anything to go on. Still, even half asleep, the kid manages something that looks like a smile in Felicity's direction, and Oliver understands her statement about Roy being a fixture; they're not just friends, but _family_—even if they aren't related.

She pours a cup of the freshly-brewed coffee in front of Roy, and Oliver notices that she takes care of him first before pouring a cup for herself—despite her earlier insistence about needing it to function. She takes a sip before saying, "Oliver, this is Roy, sometimes known as my friend and better known as my personal pain in the rear." A glance at the boy informs Oliver that he accepts the jibe with an almost-hidden smile. "Roy, this Oliver. He's here about renting the room."

"Hi," Oliver offers carefully, waiting to see how the boy reacts to his praise. He doesn't want to cause trouble—not when this is the first rent option he's found in his price range.

Roy studies him a moment, then gapes slightly before turning back to Felicity, eyebrows knitted together in confusion. "Blondie," he says slowly, "this is Oliver Queen. In your kitchen." He says it as if she doesn't already know, as if he's having trouble believing it himself.

"Thank you for establishing that," she answers, so cheerfully that it almost masks the sarcasm in her tone. "I think we were all confused about his identity."

"Bite me, Blondie," comes the sharp retort, but the smile takes the bite out of it. Roy looks between them again, then shakes his head. "I'm pretty sure I'm still dreaming, so I'm gonna go with that."

Felicity reaches across the bar and pinches him with sharp fingernails, eliciting a yelp and a muttered curse. "There, you're not dreaming," she assures him, and Oliver can't bite back a chuckle this time, but no one seems to mind. "You also haven't walked into any wormholes or otherwise ended up in a parallel universe." Felicity turns to Oliver. "I can show you the room now, if you want."

"That would be nice," he answers, and he follows her toward the room in question. She points out a few things—like where the washer and dryer are located, how her room is upstairs, about the "nerd room" (apparently full of computer parts) next to her bedroom, about the empty room he could use as office space, if he wanted.

"Here it is," she says as she opens the door wide, and Oliver studies it for a moment. Light hardwood floors are coupled with cerulean walls, and a dresser sits against one wall. The bed takes up a solid portion of the space, unlike in his current arrangement, and the closet isn't a walk-in, but he likes it nonetheless. Even if the adjoining bathroom is small and the window doesn't have a good view (something he didn't notice until Felicity pointed it out), it feels _lived in_, unlike the Queen mansion. Everything at the manor is cold and perfectly in place, but it feels like a display model and not a home.

This, however, feels like a room in a home.

"So, um, what do you think?" she asks, a little tentatively. "I mean, if you wanted to, you could repaint the walls, adjust or replace the furniture." She bites her lip. "And, you know, if you ever need, well, _privacy_, I can crash with Barry. Just give me some advanced warning."

The offer is well-phrased and serves dual purposes, and for once he doesn't feel as though someone is referring to his particularly womanizing past. He thinks it's simply an offer she'd make to anyone, with no expectations. Suddenly he can't feel anything but overwhelming gratitude for the kindness she's paid him.

He hesitates. "I like the room the way it is," he states finally. "And the only visitors I'll probably have are Thea, Mr. Diggle—my sister's driver—and Tommy."

She shrugs, as though it wasn't why she mentioned it. "The offer still stands," she continues finally, "provided you want to take the room." She bites her lip before rushing into, "I mean, obviously it can't stand, if you aren't here to take me up on said offer. But I felt like that needed a qualifier. You know, that sort of feeling you get when—"

"Felicity," he calls gently, and she stops immediately. He bites back laughter for the second time in an hour, and he thinks that, yes, Felicity Smoak is going to be an excellent influence on his life. There's only one question left without an answer, and now she seems hesitant to speak for fear of babbling again. "Where do I sign?"

Her smile is blinding as she says, "I'll go get the paperwork."

* * *

><p>Felicity scrambles to the door as soon as she hears the car pull up, glad she decided to get dressed early because she'd completely lost track of time. This time she remembered to put Oliver's move-in date in her calendar, and so she's in jeans and hopefully looks like a sane person today, unlike the last time when she was wearing her ugly dog pajama pants.<p>

Then she looks down at her black t-shirt and frowns. If she was going for normal, she probably shouldn't have worn the shirt with a set of Deadpool comic panels where he shoots a guy in the head for saying he liked the new _Star Wars_ films and demands the other one say, "Jar Jar Binks is an abomination," at gunpoint afterward. (It was an impulse buy, but she couldn't help it—she identified with it on a spiritual level.)

Even though she gave Oliver the keys after signing the lease, she figures he'll have boxes. Sure enough, he's lugging a huge, wooden box, two other people lugging things into the house behind him. The first is easily identified as Thea Queen, but the second is a new face to her—a man with huge arms and an I-am-so-done-with-this look on his face.

Felicity steps out of the way, and Oliver offers her a ridiculously charming smile that should be illegal in at _least_ twenty-two states. It's clear that it's fake because it doesn't reach his eyes, but she thinks he's trying. Though she doesn't understand why he feels the need. "Just sit those close to the wall, if you want," she offers. "You can carry them all in now and then we can get started hauling them up the stairs." She pokes her head around the door. "Though I see you brought help."

"I didn't think it would be fair to have you give up your Saturday if you had plans," he answers, and she thinks it's surprisingly considerate. He motions to the other two in turn. "This is my sister, Thea, and John Diggle, her driver." Then he motions to Felicity, and she prays she won't put her foot in her mouth. "Thea, Mr. Diggle, this is Felicity Smoak. She owns the house."

If anyone notices the way he doesn't put a title to her—not "landlord" or "roommate," but "she owns the house"—they don't say anything. Thea rolls her eyes. "Figures you'd find a girl to move in with," she remarks in a sardonic tone, full of disapproval. Felicity turns crimson on the spot; the implications there are clear, and they make her want to duck back behind the door and hope to disappear.

From the back of the room, a voice answers dryly, "Please. Blondie may have horrible tastes in men, but I don't think they're that bad." Roy sits up from the couch with a frown, always Felicity's protector. Usually it gets on her nerves, but today she's grateful for it. "Stalker lacrosse player? We're _both_ still scarred from that one. Psychotic hacker? Been there, done that." He crosses his arms. "And nerdy forensic tech boyfriend-turned-ex-turned roommate? Just moved out. But nowhere on that list, princess, will you find 'partying billionaire with a penchant for disappearing to uncharted islands for five years.'" As an afterthought caused by Felicity's glare, he shrugs and adds, "No offense, Oliver." Then he turns back to Thea with a sarcastic smile. "I'm Roy Harper."

Felicity grabs him by the arm of his jacket, pulling him further into the room with her as she walks away from the other three. "I distinctly remember telling you that, if you wanted to be here for this, you'd have to be nice," she reminds him pointedly.

"I remember telling _you_," he answers, "that I wouldn't make any promises." He crosses his arms in defiance, and Felicity notices a similar conversation between Oliver and Thea going on near the doorway, judging by their posture and facial expressions. "I'm not going to let Thea Queen walk in here and insult you because she's used to people letting her do what she wants."

She sighs, knowing that arguing with him is pointless. "I'll help with some of the boxes," she announces finally. "There are chips and dip on the counter, and drinks are in the fridge—feel free to help yourselves." Roy moves into the kitchen almost instantly, partaking in his version of breakfast. She reaches for the weird, creepy box that Oliver carried in himself, and his hand lands on her arm to stop her.

"I'll take this one," he says with a smile, but his eyes show that this exchange isn't as lighthearted as it should be. "It's heavy." It's clear that Oliver Queen has a few secrets he's sitting on, and Felicity isn't going to begrudge him that. After all, she's his roommate-slash-landlord, not his mother.

She pulls back immediately, but she doesn't try to return the fake smile. "Okay, I'll let you get that one, then," she answers evenly, standing up again to let him know his secrets are his own.

He opens his mouth to say something, but Thea cuts him off unintentionally. "So, does Roy live here too, or…?" She trails off, frowning slightly. "Because my brother didn't say anything about two roommates." She crosses her arms and levels a glare at said brother. "Of course, he didn't say much of anything, so I guess that doesn't count."

"Roy's sort of like a friendly ghost in those old movies," Felicity answers as she takes a box up the stairs. Surprisingly, Thea takes one and follows her. "He's not _always_ here, but he drops in every now and again to say hello." She tilts her head to the side. "Except, you know, he's not ethereal and always ends up crashing on my couch."

Thea chuckles and then sighs as they reach the room, and Felicity drops the box on the floor. "Look," Thea offers after dropping her own box, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that about you—I don't even _know_ you. I'm just…" She huffs. "We just got Ollie back from five years thinking he's dead, and now he's moving out. It's a lot to process, and it feels like I'm losing him again."

Felicity bites her lip, nodding in understanding. She didn't think that Thea would take this so hard, but now she understands. "Well," she answers slowly, "it's not like this is on the other end of the universe, and you're welcome to stop by whenever, as far as I'm concerned. I already told Oliver that Roy drops by randomly and that isn't going to change, so it's not like I can say no." She waves her hands. "Not that I'd want to say no—I don't have any reason why I would want to. I mean, I just met you so I don't really know you, but I don't think there's any reason why you couldn't come by. I was just—"

"Felicity," a voice says quietly from behind them, and she jumps. She hadn't realized Oliver had managed the stairs with the do-not-touch box. He's smiling when she turns to look at him, and she sighs and puts a hand to her forehead when she realizes she was babbling again. "I think Thea knew what you meant," he offers.

Felicity nods a few times before her thoughts come rushing back to her. Thea stares at her with a very bewildered look, and she swallows. "Sorry, I have a tendency to babble," Felicity tries. "I'm an IT gremlin, so social interaction and I aren't exactly best friends." She chuckles nervously. "It's not like computers make excellent conversationalists." Then she waves her hands wildly. "Not that I talk to them or—" A sigh as her next realization comes out of her mouth with the rest: "And I'm doing it again, so, you know what, I'm gonna go." She finger-points toward the door with both hands, then winces before walking away.

She's about halfway down the stairs when she hears Thea say quietly to her brother, "I _like_ her, Ollie." Felicity isn't sure whether to be relieved or if she should be insulted at how surprised by the idea Thea sounds. It's not like Felicity is a horrible person who kicks puppies in her spare time or anything, but still she's relieved that she's not going to have to be on Thea's bad side. Rumor has it that she's one woman Felicity does _not_ want to cross.

"Me, too," she hears Oliver answer, and she nearly trips over her own feet on the way down the stairs.

* * *

><p>"I don't have long because we have those repairs on the central heater and Felicity is working late," Oliver starts, "but I thought that, if we're going to be business partners, you need to see the site, too." He walks around the future home of Verdant with Tommy, inspecting the old Queen Manufacturing building with a frown. "It could use some work," he admits, "but I think it has a nice structure for a club." He motions the open floor where equipment probably sat.<p>

"It has potential," Tommy says finally after eyeing him for a long moment, then looks around the old factory. He motions to one corner of the room. "That would be a good place for the offices, and then you could put the bar up against that wall." He frowns. "Maybe a clean, industrial look, maybe with some colored lights here and there."

Oliver nods, thinking it's a surprisingly good idea coming from Tommy. Still, that doesn't mean he hasn't heard the advice before. "That was Felicity's suggestion, too," he replies, nodding. "I think it's a great idea."

Tommy stops inspecting the room to look at Oliver. "You do realize that's, like, the seventh time you've said her name in a conversation _today_, right?" His eyes narrow in a way that Oliver really doesn't appreciate. "You two must talk a _lot_, Ollie."

Oliver dismisses the thought, speaking the truth on a very rare occasion. "We're roommates, Tommy. I see her every day." He gives him a smile to soften his sarcasm: "That's what happens when you share the same address with someone."

He tilts his head to the side with a withering look before breaking into another smile. "Yeah," he agrees, "but a roommate is supposed to be someone you hate more than anyone else and spend most of your time trying to ignore. And you talk about her a _lot_, Ollie, which means you talk to her a lot, too. You've been living with her for three months I haven't met her, so, as your friend, I'm obligated to be a little skeptical." He crosses his arms, leaning against a support column. "Usually that means you're trying to keep something from me." Oliver doesn't admit that he has been; Thea was enough of a shock to Felicity's system, so no one knows what it will do to her to meet Tommy. "Tell me about her."

Oliver knows plenty of things about Felicity Smoak. He knows she dyes her hair blonde, that she graduated _summa cum laude_ from MIT, that her former roommate from college (and best friend, Barry) is a little in love with her. He knows that, on good days, she likes to take apart computers and rebuild them in the nerd room, but on bad days, she buries herself in a book (or a comic, discretely buried in a book because Roy has spent a lifetime making fun of her for it).

He knows she's more likely to slip into Hebrew when she's flustered or angry. (The worst time was when she offered to do some of Roy's laundry when his power was out, and she found an illegal switchblade knife in his pocket. Most of her ranting was in Hebrew, and both Roy _and_ Oliver were too terrified to tell her they didn't know what she was saying. But it did make Oliver more careful about where he left his own switchblade.)

He knows that when she's stressed about something, she'll pull out a pint—or sometimes a quart, depending—of mint chocolate chip ice cream and plow into it while watching a sci-fi show. He knows that when he comes home in the early hours of the morning after a bad day of chasing criminals, she only says, "Good morning, Oliver. Do you want to talk about it?" (If he says no, she leaves him alone after that, but if he does want to talk, she listens.)

He knows that if she makes the mistake of leaving her lunch in the fridge—like today—he can surprise her with food from a little Italian bistro and they can have lunch together without her asking about how little he eats. (She always insists on paying him back for her food, which is ridiculous because she clips coupons and Oliver has a bottomless pit of a trust fund. She's also been forgetting her lunch more and more lately, and he doesn't exactly think it's a coincidence.)

Most importantly, he knows that if he brings her something Hood-related after being out all night, she'll do whatever he asks, without breathing a word of it to anyone.

After the computer, he's brought her a few things in the past several months. She gave him Derek Reston's name without a second thought, even when she didn't buy his cover story for a second and called him on it. She mentioned that one of her hacks was "legally ambiguous," meaning that she broke the law for him for absolutely no reason.

Then when he gave her the arrow, her eyes flashed with something, and then she shook her head and gave him the address with a smile. No other words were needed; she just gave him everything he asked for with not a damn question. Which _still_ terrifies him because Felicity Smoak _never_ misses an opportunity to ask a question.

She knew his "motorcycle accident" after that wasn't really a motorcycle accident, too. She told him as much while rambling something about an ex-boyfriend who liked "those deathtraps" and was injured, but yet she helped him up the stairs that night and back down the next morning.

Then when he'd given her the encrypted drive from Blackhawk Security, she had grabbed her laptop from the coffee table, turned on the television and turned on some sort of cartoon with a variety of superheroes, including the one in the red that seems to be her favorite, if the violent, comic-panel shirt she seems to wear every other weekend is any indication. A few cups of coffee later and a few other superhero episodes later, she gives him the information without so much as blinking, talking about the armored car heists as though she did it every day, and then she'd fallen asleep on the couch not long after. Oliver had carried her up to her bedroom that night while she was still sleeping, and neither one of them had the courage to talk about it the next morning.

Finally, the Vertigo sample was his worst lie yet (he still cringes at the way "I ran out of sports bottles" came out whenever he thinks about it), and it was so bad she hadn't even dignified it with a response. Instead, she had asked about his "hangover," and told him to get some sleep on the couch since he probably couldn't make the stairs. He'd fallen asleep before she'd left to go see Barry with the sample, and he woke up when he heard her return, a blanket draped over him that was probably her doing. She handed him the result page without a word before pushing his feet off the last cushion and dropping on the couch, turning on the television. Instead of thanking her, which she would have brushed off, he picked up a red wine the next time he was out and placed it on the table by her bed. She confronted him about it the next night, told him he was ridiculous, and then offered him a glass.

But those aren't the sort of things Tommy will care about (or things Oliver can _tell_ Tommy about), so Oliver replies with a question. "What do you want to know about her?" he asks carefully, and he knows his tone is probably more defensive than it should be.

Oliver can predict his first question, but he lets Tommy ask it anyway. "Where does she work?" He shrugs. "I mean, you meet her for lunch at _least_ twice a week, so it has to be somewhere close, right?"

"Felicity works at QC," he answers, and Tommy's eyebrows go up before promptly falling at Oliver's addition of, "in the IT department. She doesn't have any title, but she does most of her boss's work." He frowns before amending, "Most of the department's work, actually."

Tommy's next question is predictable, too. "So, is she hot?" He grins. "And, if so, is it more a sexy librarian vibe—or is she actually drop-dead gorgeous?" Oliver can't stop his grin from falling, and Tommy rolls his eyes. "Oh, come on, Ollie. I have to ask. You're not tapping that—with prime opportunity and she seems to like you—so there has to be a reason."

The answer to that is an obvious one for Oliver—she's beautiful. She doesn't particularly turn heads, there's something stunning and charming about her, all the same. But saying yes would mean Tommy's meddling, while saying no would be a lie. Instead, he opts for the best truth under the circumstances. "She's Felicity," he answers in a weighted tone he doesn't quite understand himself. Those two words answer both his question and the not-so-subtle suggestion underneath it. Of course Tommy would want to know about how attractive she is and if they're having sex.

Tommy rolls his eyes. "That's what you say anytime someone mentions her. It's a cop out, and we both know it." Oliver doesn't say anything, and Tommy frowns because he knows he won't get anything else out of him. "What about that guy friend of hers hanging around the place? Does that ever get weird?"

"No," Oliver answers truthfully. "Roy is like a younger brother to her." He frowns, a sour taste in his mouth as he mentions the _other_ guy friend. "Felicity and Barry were roommates back at MIT"—Tommy's eyes go wide at the mention of the school—"and they've stayed in contact over the years. Just friends—nothing more." She made it clear to Oliver, in no uncertain terms, that their ship had sailed years ago when she and Barry tried to make a go of it. (Then she'd apologized for the ship metaphor.) Apparently, she thinks they're better off as friends, even if Oliver suspects Barry thinks otherwise.

"I want to meet her," Tommy demands flatly. "Thea has already had the pleasure, and you seem to be semi-dating her." Oliver opens his mouth to protest, but Tommy cuts him off. "I get it—you two aren't a thing, but do you even realize how much you talk about this girl? You and Laurel were together for the better part of five years, and you didn't talk about her half as much as Felicity." He frowns, clearly searching for words. "It's like you two are married—but without the sex." Then he laughs. "Well, maybe it's _exactly_ like you're married."

Oliver immediately balks at the idea because the idea of Felicity being married to someone just… doesn't sit right with him. And then the idea of marriage brings to him that "old ball and chain" metaphor, and Oliver has had enough of being weighed down and chained up in the past five years. It's uncomfortable all around, in that way that makes his legs feel as restless as they do before sparring with Diggle.

He sighs before finally saying over his shoulder as he walks away, "I'll talk to Felicity and we'll figure out something."

* * *

><p>Felicity expects it to be a quiet night at home since the repairman's van isn't there, but she worries when she pulls her Mini Cooper into the drive to find the house dark. Frowning because Oliver should have been there, she lets herself in, sighing in relief when the door is still locked. It's not a break-in, then, which crosses a concern off of her list. Then she finds the note on the table beside the door in a very hesitant hand, letting her know that the heater was repaired successfully and that Oliver had something with the club come up. For a moment, she wonders why he didn't just text her to let her know, but then she remembers he can barely operate the remote for the streaming box, let alone his cell phone.<p>

After a long day at work and that minor scare, she decides that it would probably be a good time to work on that bottle of red Oliver gave her in thanks for help on all of his side projects (which was ridiculous and unnecessary), so she fetches it and digs for a glass on the cabinet. Frowning when she can't find a proper wine glass, she turns back toward the dishwasher to see if it just hasn't been put up yet. When she does, she sees a motion out of the corner of her eye, and she turns toward it.

And then her hand flies to her heart as she holds back a scream.

The last thing she wanted this afternoon when she came home was to find the Vigilante in her living room, but that doesn't stop him from being there. He's staring straight at her in all of his justice-seeking glory, far more impressive in person than the sketches led her to believe, gripping the back of the couch as though his life depends on it. The other hand is pressed to his shoulder, and she can see the first traces of red liquid starting to pour from it.

Felicity has always considered herself very reactionary, and she proves it yet again when she leaves the kitchen and walks up to him, eyes fixing on the spot. "Oh, my God, you're bleeding," she mutters. Then she looks up at him. "Not that you need me to tell you that since, you know, blood and pain and _hello, bullet wound_, but this is a lot for one night. I mean, I was supposed to go home, drink a glass of wine, maybe bury myself in a good book and go to bed. Not play nurse with the Vigilante." She looks up at him again, and he seems at a loss for words the way his mouth is slightly agape. It takes a second longer for her to realize how her words could be construed. "Not in the fun way," she assures him, waving her hands wildly. "I mean the actual, patch-you-up version, not the one where—"

"Felicity," he says abruptly, confirming what she'd already guessed with one word. He pulls back the hood quickly, before his hand falls on the back of the couch again. Sure enough, Oliver's intense blue eyes are staring at her, though they seem a little dull due to the whole losing-blood thing. "I need your help."

"Tell me what you need me to do," she answers immediately. He seems surprised by her immediate acceptance of this, but she's known for months now. It's not like he can keep a secret with all of those horrible lies he tells, not to mention the mornings he walks in trying not to limp on the same nights the Vigilante is active. She's learned over the years that there are no secrets between roommates, so the illusion of privacy is what counts.

"Call Diggle," is his answer, and then he offers her his phone, nearly stumbling in the process. It's clear he's barely holding on to consciousness, and Felicity thinks it's pretty spectacular that he's managed to get this far with a gaping hole just above his heart. "He'll know what to do."

She takes the phone and then drapes his arm over her shoulder, guiding him onto the couch. He collapses halfway on the short journey, and they both go down because she can't support his weight. She manages to keep his injured shoulder from slamming against the ground, guiding it gently down. Frowning, she makes the call.

"How did things go?" the voice on the other end answers after only two rings. "Did you find the answers you were looking for?"

Felicity balks at the question since it isn't aimed at her and she has no idea how to answer it for him. "Mr. Diggle?" she asks tentatively. "Don't hang up—this is Felicity. Oliver is..." She looks at him again, pressing the sleeve of her shirt against his chest to stem the flow of blood. "It's not good," she finishes finally. "He's collapsed on the floor with a gunshot wound over his heart, and I can't move him by myself. He said to call you."

"I'll be right there," he answers, and she can hear things clattering in the background, as if he's packing supplies. "Make sure your door is unlocked." It's quiet so long she almost thinks he hung up, but then he says, "And thank you for calling me—and not the police." He does hang up then, leaving Felicity to stare at the phone.

She throws it down, then runs into the kitchen and picks up an old hand towel used for washing dishes. She returns with it and stuffs the cloth against his chest, then throws his hand over it so that she can go open the door. It surprises her how calm she is; Oliver—her roommate, her friend—is bleeding out of a bullet wound, and yet all she can think about is the list of things to do. In a way, it's the best option—if she panicked, he'd be dead for sure.

When she returns to him, she sees that there's a zipper at his throat, and she pulls it down, knowing they won't be able to patch the wound without access first. She's surprised that he isn't wearing a shirt underneath, but that fades into something else as she notices the scars across his chest. For a moment, she's relieved he's unconscious because her expression is probably horrified at whatever agony he's been through.

That was _so_ not in the news after his return to Starling.

Pushing her thoughts aside, she focuses on the wound, nearly gagging when she sees the amount of blood gushing from it. "Okay, Oliver," she says, mostly muttering to herself to help process this turn of events, "you are _not_ allowed to die on my floor Mr. Diggle is going to patch you up, and you're going to be fine, and we're all going to go back to life as normal." She allows herself a shrug. "Well, as normal as life can be when you're an IT girl landlord for technically-your-boss, who is a vigilante that fights crime at night. I think normal is a relative term here."

"Usually is when he's involved," a voice says from behind her, and she jolts upright to see John Diggle dropping to his knees beside her. "How long has he been out?"

"Just before I called you," she answers. "I was trying to help him to the couch, and sugar, we went down." He doesn't seem to understand the reference, but he doesn't ask. "I applied pressure because it was the only thing I knew to do."

"You did the right thing," he answers as he inspects the wound carefully. "I did a little field medicine in the army, but not anything impressive enough to manage this level of trauma. I know the basics, but it's theory and it's all he's got right now" He looks at her. "You ever play Operation as a kid?"

She frowns as he starts pulling out medical equipment and packs of blood she doesn't even _want_ to know about. "I did," she answers, turning away from the wound, "but it never made me want to puke. Can't say the same about this."

His response is to hand her a pair of latex gloves from a box. "Take these—I'm going to need your help." She pulls them on, knowing this is going to test her ability not to throw up all over everything.

It takes them what feels like several hours before they staunch the bleeding and can sew up the wound. Diggle's instruction is careful and precise, quiet and steady like nothing Felicity has ever seen, and she manages not to lose her lunch all over the place—though it's a fight against her stomach to keep it from happening. After liberal use of the defibrillator and a few nasty leads that Felicity has to fix, they manage to stabilize him. Diggle looks exhausted, and Felicity isn't in much better shape; nervous perspiration coats her forehead and she can feel the sensation of smeared mascara and dried tear tracks from a particularly close call when he stopped breathing for two minutes. Still, they manage to stabilize him, and they team up to carry him up the stairs.

"Remind me why I thought this was a good idea," she says absently to Diggle between breaths, her arms around Oliver's knees. "I could be talked out if it, you know—this is way too much to handle." She looks down as she hoists him up the stairs. "Here's hoping we don't all trip."

"You thought it was a good idea because you probably don't need the Vigilante lying in your floor all night," Diggle answers, then offers a snort. "All we need is for Roy to walk in on that scene." They drape Oliver on his bed, then, and Diggle takes a moment to catch his breath as Felicity goes downstairs to clean up the huge bloodstain in her hardwood floor now. Thank God it's not carpet at least; that would have been a nightmare.

"No, Felicity, I've got it," Diggle assures her. "Someone needs to stay up here with him, and I'll clean up the mess if you'll let me sleep on your couch tonight." His expression is serious as he says, "We've all had enough, and I know you need some rest, too." He claps her on the shoulder before heading toward the stairs. "Just keep an eye on him."

She nods once even though Diggle is already gone, and then she takes a few minutes to pace absently. After stumbling twice, she realizes she should probably sit down, and the other side of the bed seems a little _too_ tempting to refuse. Sighing, she slips off her shoes, pulls off her now-blood-covered sweater in favor of the simple, pink button-down underneath, and slides herself onto the bed next to him.

"Don't do anything scary again for at least two hours," she mutters to him, and it's the last thing she does before sleep overpowers her.

* * *

><p>Oliver awakens slowly and then all at once, that amazing contradiction that comes from years of surviving on an island. First it's just sensations that don't quite connect—a foggy head, a pinned arm, an excruciating pain in his shoulder—and then the memories flood back, jolting him wide awake. His first instinct is to sit up, but his shoulder makes that impossible and the other arm won't move because something very soft and warm is pressed against it. His eyes open then, and everything makes more sense.<p>

His mouth forms a smile without his permission as he finds the source of his inability to move. He's lying on his bed upstairs—which, he notes, is decidedly _not_ where he passed out—and he takes up one side. The other is now occupied by one Felicity Smoak, fully asleep next to him. Her arms are wrapped around his right elbow in a way so uninhibited that he thinks she probably did it unconsciously in sleep. Normally it would be fine, but a quick glance down the length of his arm informs him that his arm is pressed tightly against things he has no business touching—even if she did force them into the situation.

Because she apparently has a very tight grip, he tries a different approach. "Felicity?" he asks quietly, his voice rough and dry. He knows from his nightly prowling (when he's not out prowling the city instead; he's always restless at night) that she's a sound sleeper, so he doesn't expect a quick response time.

He gets one, though, her head shooting up instantly as a mess of tangled blonde hair flies everywhere, her eyes wide with concern. "Oh, good—you're awake," she says in a raspy voice. Then she realizes their position and goes scarlet on the spot. "God, I'm sorry—I'm a cuddler. I don't mean to do it, but it always ends up happening." She disentangles herself quickly, straightening her askew glasses as she sits up.

He tries to do the same, but he's stopped by an aching shoulder and a hand on the opposite one pushing him back down. "Don't you dare rip those stitches out," she says sternly, and Oliver notices for the first time that there are black smudges around her eyes. Without thinking, he reaches for her, rubbing his thumb under her eye, and Oliver frowns when it comes off on his hand. Then he realizes it's some sort of makeup product—eyeliner or mascara or something. Felicity must read the silent question in his eyes because she answers with a quiet, "It was close, Oliver." He doesn't ask for clarification because he doesn't need it.

"I didn't mean to scare you," he replies, knowing it's the best condolence he can offer. She doesn't answer, but instead drapes his right arm over her shoulder and helps him into a sitting position. "Thank you." She looks at him then, and it gives him the courage to continue. "For helping me—and for not turning me in." She bites her lip, and he offers a tentative smile. "How long have you known?"

She rolls her eyes as though it's the most ridiculous question he could ask her. "Since the 'motorcycle accident,'" she replies, using air quotes around the phrase. "You bring me a black arrow that matches the ones in police lockup, and then you get in that 'accident' the same night that the Vigilante gets his ass handed to him by the Dark Archer?" She crosses her arms. "I may be blonde, Oliver, but I'm not _that_ blonde." She waves a hand. "Not to mention all the mornings you come in pretending not to limp after the Vigilante has been active."

"You could have turned me in—reported me," he reminds her in a quiet voice, still not sure if that isn't the plan. At the very least, he knows he's looking for a new place to live—he doesn't see any reason why Felicity would continue to let him live here.

"I like to give people the benefit of the doubt," she answers. "Which is why I have a little black book of secret names that I haven't shown you yet." He frowns, and she waves a hand. "But we can talk about that later. Right now, I think breakfast and then a long nap are in order. The point is that I'm not going to turn you in." She laughs lightly. "You're a very low-maintenance roommate, and a good renter is hard to find." She rises to her feet then, picking up a once-gray sweater and sliding into her shoes before turning to leave.

Or he _thinks_ she's going to leave, rather. Instead, she goes over to the dresser and throws him the gray zipup hoodie that he usually wears around the house, then carries it back to him, dropping onto the bed next to him.

Without thinking, she unzips his jacket, and Oliver thinks he enjoys that motion far too much and not near enough at the same time. Over the past three months, he's developed a... soft spot for his roommate, and he'd be lying if he hadn't thought about how she'd react to the hood and the Vigilante gear. She pulls the gauze from his shoulder, poking the stitches with delicate fingers. "I'm not an expert," she admits, but they _look_ like they'll hold." She allows her eyes to travel from his shoulder to his face, and it does something to him to see her look at him with that level of concern. "But I think you'll be fine, provided you don't do anything _too_ strenuous." She thinks about that for a moment, but her face heats as her eyes flick away from his for a moment. "Like push-ups or running a marathon or—"

For the life of him, he has no idea why he does even thinks about it. It could be the blush, it could be the smudged eyeliner under her eyes that reminds him that she cares, or it could be the way she looks up at him, her hand still over the wound. (Or it could be the fact he's wanted to do this for so long that he barely remembers anything else.) His eyes drop to her mouth for a moment before returning to her eyes, and the new flush over her cheekbones lets him know that she reads his intention loud and clear. Still, he announces his next move by cupping her jaw, and her eyes slowly fall shut.

It's all the encouragement he needs, really.

Oliver means it to be a soft, gentle kiss, but he changes plans when he realizes that it's Felicity and he's been denying this for far too long. He drinks in the sensations of being close to someone for the first time since the island, and she returns it so eagerly that he feels the need to continue kissing her to ensure he's not imagining it. He means for his left arm to land between her shoulder blades, but the action hurts too much and it goes to her hip instead. Her arms intertwine at the back of his neck, pulling him further into her.

He can't tell if it's his doing or hers that pulls him over the top of her, but he can feel their positions changing, her reclining backward and him hovering over her. His hand on her cheek cups the back of her head, and he's nearly hovering over her when she stops him with a hand at her shoulder.

Oliver feels the need to apologize because things have gotten horribly out of hand, but instead she does the talking. "I told you—you're not allowed to rip out those stitches," she murmurs against his mouth, and he thinks it's an excellent sensation to feel her mouth smile against his.

He pulls back, unable to resist lifting an eyebrow at her. Carefully he leans over her a little more, taking full advantage of the situation. He's finally rewarded with a stuttered breath when she realizes that he's very much on top of her—or as much as he can be without putting weight on his shoulder. "If you're thinking about my stitches right now," he offers with a careful smile, "then I'm doing something very wrong."

She blushes furiously at that, and he pulls her up into a sitting position. "You didn't do anything wrong," she assures him in a high voice, filled with that same semi-hysterical tone she usually reserves for babbling. "In fact, I'm pretty sure you did everything right. It was perfect, and I didn't want to stop, but—"

He puts his mouth to hers again, this time shorter and much closer to being chaste than the last. "You need to stop doing that," she says after a long moment. "Now I'm distracted, and we have more important things to think about, like breakfast and when I get to see your super-secret spy lair." He opens his mouth to speak, surprised she's interested in joining the team. She apparently takes it as opposition because she crosses her arms before continuing, "I want to see it, Oliver." Color floods her face as she backpedals. "And by 'it,' I mean your vigilante operation. Not anything else."

He manages to pull himself to his feet, smiling at the accidental innuendo. It seems to be a fixture to their conversations; he has always appreciated the inherent honesty there. Truthfully, it's what made him choose to trust her time and time again, to give her his secrets when he should have sought out various techs for help each time. He's almost glad he did now, if only so that he doesn't have to lie to her.

"You can see it in action tonight," he answers, the innuendo somewhat intentional, and he has the pleasure of watching her gape at him. Then, feeling more lighthearted than he has in five years, he offers her a wink before making a cowardly retreat down the stairs.

He really should expect her to get in the last word. "Let's hope you're as good as they say you are," she calls behind him, her tone far too casual.

He isn't sure if it's an _accidental_ innuendo this time.

* * *

><p><em>Playlist:<em>

_"Changing" - The Airborne Toxic Event_  
><em>"Goodbye Agony" - Black Veil Brides<em>  
><em>"I Don't Wanna Be" - Gavin DeGraw<em>  
><em>"Anywhere But Here"- Mayday Parade<em>  
><em>"Monsoon" - Tokio Hotel<em>  
><em>"Let You Down" - Black Veil Brides<em>  
><em>"My Last Breath" - Evanescence<em>  
><em>"Beautiful Disaster (Live)" - Kelly Clarkson<em>


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